The King's Wizard (23 page)

Merlin reached out to take her by the shoulders, but Nimue turned away. He let his hands drop.

“I came back for you, so that we could be together. I know I’ve put my life—our life—on hold for too long, but Britain needed
me.”

“Britain will always need you, Merlin. There will always be another crisis that needs you to mend it. Please understand—”
She turned to face him, tears glittering in her dark eyes. “I love you for that most of all. You will always be my perfect
gentle knight. But I cannot be a part of such a life. It frightens me too much.”

This time she did not resist as Merlin drew her toward him. He kissed her gently upon the forehead.

“I am done with that, Nimue. I swear to you, that part of my life is over. I dedicated myself to Mab’s destruction, but she
cannot be defeated by her own methods—they only make her stronger. It is Arthur who
will put an end to her, by building a world in which she can no longer exist. My part is ended.”

Nimue studied his face for a long moment, then flung herself into his arms, weeping.

“Oh, my love!” She pressed her face against his chest. “How I’ve hoped you would someday be able to say those words. I will
go to the Father Abbot tomorrow. I know he will accept my decision. I only hope God will understand how much I love you. …”

The prayers on the battlefield had led to a celebration, as the consolidated armies raided the supplies brought to sustain
a war for the means to make a feast.

Now he was truly King, Arthur thought to himself. No sword, no coronation, could mean more to him than the praise and thanks
of men who were alive tonight because he’d done the right thing. He’d visited as many campfires as he could, and at each he’d
been offered wine, or mead, or the potent
hrolka
that the Saxons had introduced to Britain. Finally he’d adjourned to his own tent for a quiet party with his closest companions.
They’d talked for hours about Britain’s future, of the golden city of Camelot that Arthur would build upon the site where
he had drawn Excalibur from the stone.

“And the Grail!” said Kay, leaning sideways in his chair. His cheeks were flushed with wine. “If
you
can be King, surely that means you can restore the Grail? Camelot won’t be complete without it.”

“Kay!” Sir Hector said, embarrassed at his son’s plain speaking. Arthur held up a hand.

“No, he’s right. The Grail left Britain because our
people were unworthy of so great a treasure. How better to prove how far we have come from those dark days than to bring the
Grail back to Camelot? I shall build a special church at Camelot to house it—and when it is there for all men to see, it will
prove that the ages of darkness and sin are passed, that we are worthy once more.”

All of them cheered him, even Lord Lot, who still followed the Old Ways. Only Gawain looked troubled. Arthur was about to
ask him why, when an increase in the commotion outside made him step outside his tent.

An astonishing sight greeted his eyes. Making its way slowly through the camp was a long cortege of white horses. Every other
rider was carrying torches, and those who did not carry torches led pure white pack mules heavily laden with chests and packs
of all description. Every rider was sumptuously dressed, and even the tack of the mules gleamed with gold.

Riding at the head of the procession was the most beautiful woman Arthur had ever seen. Her long hair was a deep chestnut,
piled high upon her head and set with jewels. The opulent gown she wore left her arms bare; it was woven of a fabric the like
of which Arthur had never seen, seeming one moment to be red, another gold, the next a royal purple. Her fingers were jeweled
and her white arms gleamed with gold.

“Your Majesty.”

The man who rode beside her dismounted and presented himself to Arthur, bowing low. “May I present my lady … Marie, Queen
of the Border Celts, who comes to pay you homage.”

The speaker’s long blond hair fell forward in a
curtain that could not quite hide his gleeful smile. Despite his claims of Celtic blood, the man was as fair as a Saxon. His
only half-concealed mirth made Arthur wonder if he were being made the butt of some rude joke. He might have pursued the matter,
but at that moment Marie herself came forward and Arthur forgot everything else as she curtsied deeply, her dark eyes never
leaving his face.

“You are most welcome, my lady,” Arthur said. He raised her to her feet and led her into the tent.

The others—Lot, Hector, Boris—had already come outside, curious about the new arrivals. Queen Marie’s servants had already
begun unloading the mules, and through the cloth walls of his tent Arthur could hear his knights exclaiming over the gold,
the jewels, the silks and spices that Queen Marie had brought. But it seemed to Arthur that the lady herself was the richest
gift of all.

“Lady, we are overwhelmed by your gifts,” Arthur said. He could not think of what to say next. He knew he was blushing, and
was glad that the soft light of the tent disguised the fact.

“Well, perhaps I—and my servants—can join you for the night,” Morgan whispered softly. She kept her face smooth, though inwardly
she was laughing at how easily Arthur was taken in. Frik’s enchantment had worked! “We’ve had a long, tiring journey, and
would like to rest before we return home.”

But there would be no rest for Arthur, not if Morgan had her way. The young King did not suspect that there was no Marie,
that she was his half-sister Morgan,
and all the gifts she had brought would vanish in the morning light like the fairy gold they were. By then she would have
what she wanted. Look at him—the boy was already tripping over his own tongue.

“Of course!” Arthur said eagerly. “We could spend some time together. You can tell me about your people.”

I can think of better things to do than talk!
Morgan jeered inwardly. “It will be a pleasure, Your Majesty,” she said aloud. She stared at the wine-jug on the table until
Arthur got the hint.

“Uh, some”—he tripped over a stool—“some wine, Lady Marie?”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the opportunity to move farther into the tent. Only a curtain separated her from Arthur’s bed,
and only a few hours from being the mother of the next King of Britain. She did not fear that they would be interrupted—Frik
would see to that, her golden-haired dream lover, the only one she’d ever known who had treated her as she deserved to be
treated. Her father had abandoned her, and so had her mother. Her brother had forgotten her—look at him, panting after her
beautiful illusion. Had he ever once sent to Tintagel to see how she was?

He deserved everything she was about to do.

Merlin awoke with a start. The candles had burned down to nubbins, the wick guttering in the middle of a wide lake of liquid
wax. He straightened up, wincing slightly—a chair was no place to sleep, not at his age. Beside him, Nimue slumbered chastely
in her bed.

But something had awakened him—what?”

Merlin stared into the candle flame. The wax bubbled and seethed, and as he watched in horror, it molded itself into human
figures, figures that writhed and coupled and intertwined unmistakably.

“What are you showing me, Mab?” he demanded.

The figures appeared in the wax again, and this time he knew them. One was Arthur.

The other was Morgan le Fay.

Eldritch laughter filled the room, soft and chill as winter’s snow.

“What have you done?” Merlin cried in horror.
Arthur
. He must go to him at once. If he could not stop this disaster, perhaps he could soften its effects. He got to his feet and
ran from the room.

He did not look back.

Mab laughed, loud shrieks of laughter as inhuman as the storm that raged outside the throne room at Pendragon Castle. The
castle was deserted—Arthur was in the field, with his army—and Mab felt it was a fitting site for her ultimate triumph. She
skipped along the flagstoned floor, Frik behind her. The gnome made sure he was smiling when she looked at him, but frankly,
he’d never felt less like frolicking. Morgan was
his
—his creation, his greatest achievement, his biggest fan, and he’d been forced to hand her over to that pimply boy Arthur.
What use would she have for him now that she had Arthur’s child?

Mab glanced at him suspiciously. Frik smiled dutifully.

* * *

The morning sun shone on Nimue’s face, awakening her. She did not open her eyes. She wanted to savor this moment. Today she
would leave Avalon—not as she had the last time, a frightened child traveling to the court of a mad king, but as a woman going
to her lover. There was a strength in Merlin she had never sensed before—strength enough for both of them, strength enough
to make everything all right at last.

“Merlin?” Nimue said.

There was no answer.

She opened her eyes and stared at the empty room. There was the chair he had slept in; there was the melted wax that was all
that was left of the candle that had lit their conversation as they had talked together, long into the night.

Merlin was gone. She’d been right to pledge herself to God after all—and wrong to believe in Merlin.

Nimue covered her face with her hands and wept.

Merlin rode as fast as he could, but all Mab’s power was arrayed against him. He reached Badon Hill only to discover that
Arthur had left there at dawn. One of his servants thought that Arthur had ridden to Winchester. Merlin followed, but Arthur
was not there, and it was another day before Merlin reached Pendragon Castle.

*I can’t take many more expeditions like that one,*
Sir Rupert complained as he cantered over the drawbridge at Pendragon. Arthur was here—Merlin could see his blue standard
flying from the tower.

“There won’t be any more, old friend,” Merlin
said, patting Sir Rupert’s shoulder. “This may be the end of everything.”

As he walked toward the Great Hall, Merlin summoned his wizard’s staff, a slender rowan sapling with a round ball of clear
crystal embedded among the tangled roots of its tip. It would make him look more impressive, and after two days on the road
without sleep, he needed it to lean on as well. He was filled with a bone-weariness; Mab had reached out from the ashes of
her greatest defeat to destroy them all. She had forced him to betray Nimue as well, and that injury was the one Merlin felt
most keenly. Aching inside, he flung open the doors of the Great Hall.

The room from which Vortigern and Uther had both ruled was filled with shadows and the ghosts of other days. It seemed to
Merlin that even the walls whispered together, mocking his hopes of a better life. One faint ray of sun streamed into the
room, haloing Arthur’s golden hair as he sat upon his throne surrounded by his chief knights. Exhausted and angry, Merlin’s
heart swelled with rage—all these men counted themselves as Arthur’s friends. Why hadn’t any of them kept him from the fearful
mistake he had made?

“Out, my lords!” Merlin shouted. He banged his staff on the floor for added emphasis.

Only a few weeks ago, they would have left without question. Now they looked to Arthur, and only rose to go when he nodded
his assent.

“And close the door behind you!” Merlin shouted as they left. He saw Sir Boris make the sign against
evil, and for a moment he was glad that they resented and feared him.

“Merlin, what is it?” Arthur asked, coming to his feet and moving toward his old tutor. His face showed only concern for Merlin’s
obvious distress. He was dressed all in deep russet, his tunic trimmed with large flat circles of gold that matched the color
of his hair, but for all his kingliness, Arthur did not yet wear a crown. Uther’s crown had been buried with Uther, and a
new one had not yet been made.

“Tell me the truth, Arthur. Two nights ago you slept with a woman.” Merlin held back his anger with an effort.

Arthur’s face reflected bewilderment and a touch of kingly temper. “Yes, if you must know, I did. Though I don’t see why I
need to tell you.”

“That was Morgan le Fay,” Merlin announced.

“Who?” Arthur said blankly.

“Her mother was the Lady Igraine,” Merlin answered. “
Your
mother.”

Arthur’s face went grey with shock as the significance of Merlin’s words sank in. Incest was as great a sin in the New Religion
as illegitimacy, and as he realized the enormity of what he had done, Arthur fell slowly to his knees beside his throne and
buried his face against his arm.

“I didn’t know,” he groaned. “I swear I didn’t know. …”

“There will be a child. Mab will see to that.” As the first shock of his defeat wore off, Merlin began to understand the game
that Mab played here. As Merlin
had taken Uther’s child, Mab would take Arthur’s, and mold him into the death of all their hopes.

If only he had stayed beside Arthur that night—if only he had warned him to be more suspicious—or sought a vision of the future.
Against his will, such a vision came now. Merlin saw armies careening through fog, saw Arthur die at the hands of a bat-winged
warrior whose symbol was the eclipse, as a burning comet overshadowed half the sky, turning the day to blood.

All their dreams for a golden city of peace and justice had been undone by one careless act, made possible because once again
Merlin had underestimated his great enemy. But he had been thinking only of Nimue.

Nimue had told him the truth long ago, and she had been right, as always. As much as their love drew them together, Duty pulled
them apart. Arthur was a good king, but he could not do battle against Mab. Only Merlin could do that.

“He’ll be the future, and he’ll destroy us,” Merlin said inexorably. But Merlin would be there, watching over Arthur, to postpone
that future for as long as he could.

He would not go to Avalon again.

It was late, after midnight prayers. For hours Nimue had wept and prayed, trying to understand how Merlin could have left
her again after he had begged her to set aside her holy vows.

It wasn’t his choice. Something terrible must have happened to call him away
.